


The World Is Quiet Here

by Alison_Parker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Bisexual John Watson, Gay Sherlock, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Titles, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Pining Sherlock, Post Mary, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-The Final Problem, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is Rosies dad, Sulking, Teen Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Therapy, angry Rosie, attempted overdose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-05-13 22:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14757644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alison_Parker/pseuds/Alison_Parker
Summary: On her way back to Sherlock's flat from the library one night, Rosie is attacked. She wakes up with no memory of anything due to a concussion, only the knowledge that while she was unconscious she was raped. She makes Sherlock promise that he won't tell her dad about it, but eventually the secret becomes too big when she begins having symptoms of PTSD. Rosie insists on dealing with things in her own way, which is good and bad for John and Sherlock's relationship which is just coming to a head.I'm bad, bad, bad at summarizing. Give it a read and see if my writing is better than my summarization!!*Credit to 'The Series of Unfortunate Events' for the title. I heard it in the show and just loved the idea!*





	1. It All Starts Here

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first Sherlock story I've ever published! I've had this idea for so long and I'm so glad that I'm finally able to start putting it on paper.  
> TW for the rape, nothing is explicit in this chapter. I can't say that that will always be the case for all the chapters. I will leave notes at the beginning of each chapter if there is anything triggering. 
> 
> Note: I've never been a victim of rape, I'm also not a doctor/psychologist. Anything in here is not medical advice, this is just my interpretation of someone dealing with the aftermath of a rape. I'm also American so any slang used is because I've heard it from TV shows, sorry if I don't use it the right way!
> 
> *I don't own any of the Sherlock characters*

The spring night air was just cool enough to raise gooseflesh on Rosie’s arms. She was headed back to 221B. Baker Street was just within walking distance of the library where she was studying for exams. Her father, John Watson and his best friend Sherlock Holmes were working on a case and she was told to head there to grab some money for a cab home.

She was two blocks away when she heard a yell ahead of her on the other side of the street. At first she didn’t think anything of it. It was central London, there was honking cars and taxis and people yelling all the time. But she slowed her walking when she listened to what the yelling was about.

A young woman, probably just a little bit older than her was fighting with a man around the same age. At first she assumed it could be some type of lovers tiff. But the closer she got and the more she listened to what she was saying; she realized that that was not the case.

“Hey! Get off!” She yelled before he clamped a hand over her mouth. She kicked and screamed but he wasn’t letting up. He was a big man Rosie noted. 6’3 at least and had wide-set shoulders. The man began dragging her on her heels through a small dark alley to a secluded parking lot for the employees of the now closed restaurant there. Before thinking, Rosie rushed across the mostly empty street towards them.

“HEY-” She screamed. When she got close enough she swung her heavy backpack, full of textbooks at them. She didn’t hit them for fear of smacking the girl too. The man, startled at being confronted dropped the woman on her backside and sprinted away. At first Rosie just stared at her.

“That just happened.” she whispered to herself.

She fell to her knees next to the crying woman and hugged her. “It’s okay, shhh. It’s okay now.”

When most of the tears had subsided, Rosie asked her what she wanted to do.

The woman, whose name was Miranda, said “I just really want to go home.”

Rosie nodded. It wasn’t her place to tell Miranda what to do. Even though she knew the best thing would be to go to the police and alert the public of a creep grabbing women, she understood how frightening it could be to speak up. It would make the whole ordeal real.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” Rosie asked her

Miranda looked at her in surprise. “Would you really?”

Rosie was hesitant at first. Did she really want to walk this stranger back to her flat?

“Yes, of course. It’s better if we’re together and not alone.”

Miranda’s flat turned out to be only two streets over from 221B. Miranda thanked her profusely when they got to her door.

“I know it’s late but I feel as though I should invite you in for a cuppa?” She asked hesitantly. She glanced around her street anxiously as if the man was going to jump back out at any moment.

Rosie politely declined. “I really should be getting home, my dad will be wondering where the hell I am.” she chuckled.

Miranda smiled. “Well, thank you for everything again.”

As Rosie turned to go something cold and hard hit her in the head. She fell like a rock on the steps in front of the flat. Pain shot through her skull as it was smacked a second time by the concrete. Her vision blurred and through what was left of that feathered sight she saw the street lights. They burned her eyes; she groaned and shut them.

“Took you long enough.”

And then everything faded away softly, like she was being put under anesthesia.


	2. What Would You Do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my tumblr is mcallmestiles!

“Ma’am? Can you hear me?”

Once again those damn street lights were in her eyes. She groaned and tried to close her eyes but they were being held open. 

“Can you tell us your name?” 

“Get the lights out of my eyes.” She mumbled. She tried covering her eyes but was only met with resistance. Hands pushed hers down back at her sides. 

Finally the light stopped shining in her eyes and they let go of her eyelids and allowed them to fall shut. Under her fingers were rough sheets. She was lying on something like a mattress but running up and down the sides were metal bars. She had a blanket that was pulled up to her chest that was immiting so much heat that she wanted to throw it off. She felt feverish.

Bit by bit she opened her eyes, the room was still bright so she squinted at the lights overhead. There were two men seated beside her. The one closest was older - more her dad’s age - with salt and pepper hair and a kind face. He was leaning in towards her as if waiting for her to speak. The other was a young blond guy. He seemed disinterested, she wasn’t bleeding out or anything, and was writing some paperwork. 

“Where am I?” It was a stupid question that wasn’t clear on what she meant to ask. She already knew she was in an ambulance, but she wanted to know where she was. 

“An ambulance. You were found in Hyde Park in the bushes.” 

“What?” She sat up fast which was a huge mistake. With the combination of the moving of the vehicle and the hit on the head she got dizzy and nearly fell on the floor. Both men grabbed her arms and lowered her back onto the bed; her stomach was rolling but she was not going to get sick in front of them. 

Her mind reeled. Rosie was trying to remember everything she did that day. She had gone to school and then almost immediately to the library to study. She remembered texting her dad. She was supposed to have stopped at Sherlock’s but she didn’t even remember doing that. How did she end up at Hyde Park?

“I don’t remember going there.” She told them. 

“You have a couple contusions on your head, so that’s not too surprising.”

The ambulance came to a stop and the EMTs opened the doors and rolled her out. 

It was the strangest feeling. Being awake, being conscious and still having doctors, nurses, and EMTs talking about you like you weren’t there. Medical terminology was thrown about the ER room that she was wheeled into. Two nurses bustled around her; they put in an IV, wiped blood off of her forehead and face and checked her vitals all the while smiling and telling her exactly what they were going to do. 

One of the doctors, who was clearly in charge, was listing off all of the tests he wanted to one of the male nurses. “I want a CT on her head and give me an x-ray on that left wrist; it’s pretty bruised up.”

He pulled the curtain aside and was stopped by one of the EMTs, the older, nicer one. 

Rosie could see him whispering to the doctor so no one else would overhear. She strained her ears to hear over the nurses, and other various noises of the machines around you.

“... should get a kit. She was found in Hyde Park with her…”

The doctor peeked his head back into the room and looked at the nurses. “And give her a rape kit too.”

Everything in the room stopped. The nurse who was pumping the bulb on the blood pressure cuff stopped. The other woman who was writing down some information in Rosie’s chart nearly dropped her pen. They were all stunned at his abrasiveness. 

“What?!” Rosie freaked. She nearly ripped out her IV she jerked out of bed so fast. All three nurses in the room rushes to her side and eased, well rather  _ pushed _ her back into the bed.

The doctor suddenly looked very embarrassed. It’s as if he came down from this other level - this godliness - and finally understood what he said and how he said it at a mortal level. 

He stepped back into the room with less rush and leaned heavily against the end of her bed. Rosie realized that how he was treating her before, like an object, was not how he meant it. He was in a rush. He had dark circles under his kind eyes. He looked beaten and worn out. He looked like he needed some sleep. 

“Could I have the room for a moment, please?”

Everyone filed out and he traded places, replacing the nurse standing at Rosie’s elbow taking her blood pressure. 

“I’m sorry for being so harsh. Sometimes I forget that my patient is also a person.”

Rosie felt a wave of guilt. Her eyes were burning. “Can you please just tell me what happened?”

He released the air in the cuff and wrote down her blood pressure on her chart. “I don’t know what happened. I wish I could tell you.”

He sat on the side of her bed and patted her hand. It reminded her painfully of her Dad on nights when she had nightmares. 

“The EMTs said you were found in Hyde Park in some bushes with your skirt unbuttoned and your shirt halfway off.”

Rosie let out the breath she’d been holding and put her head in her hands. 

“I can’t even remember anything.”

He nodded. “We think you have a concussion. It’s normal to have retrograde amnesia after head trauma. It will come back.”

“What if I don’t want it to come back.” 

“I know you don’t.” He patted her hand again and stood up. “Bryan is going to take you to get a CT and x-ray. The CT will just check you head, and see if you do have a concussion. The x-ray is for your left hand.” 

He took it in his own hands gently and turned it over. “It’s a little too bruised for my liking; I want to see if it’s fractured.” 

He pressed on the sides of it. “Does this hurt?”

Rosie nodded. “Yeah, a little.” 

He parted the curtain and motioned to the others. “After that Mia will take you to do the rest.”

The rest. The rape kit. He wouldn’t even say it. 

“Someone needs to call my dad.” Rosie told him. 

“Of course. Give it to Amy. She’ll call him right away.”

And then she was being wheeled away down the hall. “I’ll see you again, right?”

“I’ll see you later, and we’ll go over your test results.”


	3. Half-Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 3! Hope you enjoy! Please leave kudos and comments so I know how I'm doing!

Hospitals at midnight are those types of places where time seems to stop. Like the world is moving around you, but you’re stuck in some type of loop that’s never ending. It’s the same type of eeriness that empty parking lots at night give you. That strange perception of reality coupled with the feeling that what just happened didn’t seem real left Rosie in a state of high anxiety.

When Mia left Rosie, not only was she alone in this hospital room, she was alone with her thoughts. Her racing thoughts were going around and around in a loop looking for answers in the far reaches of her brain and they were coming up empty handed. The doctor did say that her memories would come back. And Rosie didn’t know if she wanted them to. She didn’t know what was worse, the unknowing or the knowing. 

There was a soft knock at her door. So it was either another nurse or the doctor; her father or Sherlock would have just busted the door open. The softness of the knock held the hope that maybe the inhabitant of the room would be asleep. No such luck. 

“Come in,” she said.

Her doctor, Dr. Hansen, shut the door quietly behind him. “Some good news. Amy was able to get ahold of your dad. He’s on his way now. I’d like you to stay here for tonight though.” He pulled up a chair next to her bed and sank into it. He held a stack of papers in his hands, but they seemed like they were just for show. He already knew everything he needed to tell her. 

“Your CT showed that you do have a mild concussion. Hence, why we’re going to keep you overnight. The cut on your forehead and nose are superficial, you don’t need stitches, just watch them. Your wrist is broken. It’s called a bow fracture. I’m going to have Mia come back in here and wrap it up in a splint and we can schedule an appointment sometime this week to get a cast.” He trailed off. 

“And?”

He pulled out a business card and wrote on the back of it. “This is my wife. She’s a psychologist here. I want you to give her a call.”

“So it was positive?” Rosie asked. It was a pointless question, she already knew the answer.  _ Every _ part of her body ached.

He nodded solemnly. “When Mia comes to wrap your arm she’s going to bring you some pills to take. Emergency contraception and such,” He placed a warm hand on top of hers like he did earlier. “Please, call my wife. You don’t need to do it tomorrow, you don’t even need to do it next week. But do it sometime if you need her. I put my number on the back if you feel more comfortable talking to me. I’ve seen girls like you come in here, strong girls like you, and they think they can handle everything themselves. They don’t want to talk about it, relive it, and then months later they come back in through my emergency wing because they overdosed. Right now, nothing feels real. But when it hits you, call her. Talk to someone and get help.”

Rosie nodded, overcome by fondness for this man she initially didn’t care for. “Thank you,” She croaked out. “I will.” 

Despite his initial demeanor in the E.R., he seemed to have a heart of gold. She could feel that every word he said was genuine. He really did want her to get help. While he was sitting in front of her she felt calm. But after he left she was thrown into another state of dizzying panic. 

Rosie laid down in the bed on her back and forced herself to focus on scratchy white sheets under her body, the ticking of the clock across the room, and the buzzing of voices through the cracked door. She looked up and counted the tiles on the ceiling, then as she was attempting to count the number of letters on the whiteboard on the wall that listed who she was and who her doctor was, Mia came in. 

 

“I didn’t wake you, I hope.”

Rosie pulled herself into a sitting position with her one good arm. “No.”

“Oh, good.” Mia poured Rosie a glass of water and held out a small clear cup with four pills in it. 

Two red circles. 

One blue rectangle.

And one white circle.

“Ta,” Rosie tried to ignore that Mia’s hand was shaking. And that when Rosie took both cups her hand was shaking too. 

Mia worked in silence as she wrapped Rosie’s arm in the splint. The wrap was a god awful yellow that was practically fluorescent. Mia was gentle with Rosie’s broken arm, handling it more gently than Rosie even had with her own arm.

“How long have you been a nurse?” Rosie asked, taking another sip of water. Mia was young looking, maybe just a few years older than herself. It wasn’t hard to deduce that she was new.

Mia laughed nervously. “That obvious, huh? I’ve only been at it a month.”

Before they could engage in anymore meaningless small talk, the door opened and her dad rushed towards her beside and grasped her in a crippling hug. 

“Oh God, Rosie. Jesus, I didn’t know what to think. You didn’t come home for hours, I called your mobile about a hundred times with no answer and then I get a call from a nurse at St. Mary’s telling me you’ve been in an accident? What the hell happened? Were you in a cab? Did someone hit you?”

Rosie looked over her Dad’s shoulder to see Sherlock lingering in the corner of the room by the door. His face was set in stone. He knew something was off, he was assessing her.

“Dad, yeah I’m fine.” He pulled away and took her face in his hands looking at her injuries. 

“What happened?” He asked again.

“Honestly, I don’t know. I think I got mugged. I got hit in the head a couple of times, I have a concussion.”

The voice in her head was Sherlock’s.  _ ‘Liar.’ _

_ ‘Shut up,’ _ She told him.  _ ‘I’m not lying, I  _ **_don’t_ ** _ know everything that happened.’ _

 

Mia had finished wrapping Rosie’s arm in it’s splint while John was hugging her. She patted Rosie’s hand and stood up. 

“I’m here all night. If you need me, just press the call button. Do you want me to get the doctor..?”

“No!” Rosie answered much too quickly, though her father was too busy looking at the cut on her forehead to hear the panic in her voice. 

Mia didn’t seem bothered by her abruptness, she just nodded and left, letting the door  _ click _ closed. 

 

The room was impossibly quiet with the three of them in there. John settled in the same chair that the doctor sat in just 20 minutes ago next to her bed. For some reason his closeness wasn’t comforting this time, she felt like she was suffocating. 

Sherlock stayed farther away, choosing to sit by the window. 

“What did the doctor say exactly?” John asked. 

Rosie shook her head. “I have a mild concussion. He wants me to stay overnight for it. And I broke my wrist when I fell. The people in the ambulance said they found me in Hyde Park.”

“What were you doing over there?” John asked. Rightly so toow; Hyde Park was past Baker Street if she was coming from school. 

Rosie shrugged and shook her head. “No idea.”

Her father seemed to leave it at that, not investigating any further as to how she got there. Sherlock on the other hand was sulkily sitting in the corner with his hands steepled across his mouth. Thinking.

“Hey, did you see police officers out there?” She asked. “No one’s come to see me, and they took my backpack.”

“We’ll get you another computer.” Her dad promised, assuming that’s what she was referring to. 

“Ah, well the fuckers could have taken the expensive stuff but at least have left my books and notes. I got tests to study for.”

John raised an eyebrow at her language, but ignored it this time. “I talked to Lestrade on the phone on my way in. He asked the officers to come back to the flat tomorrow when you’re up for it.”

Rosie settled into the bed more contently. Good, she didn’t want to talk to anyone. 

John noticed this and looked at Sherlock. “I’m going to go see if I can find that doctor and talk to him. I want to see the x-rays and CT. Sorry love, I’m overprotective.” He said when Rosie seemed to protest. “After that we’ll be on our way and be back in the morning to get you.”

He kissed her forehead to smooth the wrinkles of her frown and left. 

As soon as John left the doorway, Sherlock whisked over and slammed shut the slow moving door with his hand before turning around and examining her face. 

“Oh, shut up.” She told him and crossed her arms. Normally she wasn’t so crass, but she didn’t need his deducing at a time like this. And normally he didn’t have a filter.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know you know.” was all she said. Sherlock stared at her. Waiting for whatever she was going to say next.  “This stays between us right now.”

Oddly enough, he nodded, just once. His face was pained but he agreed. He sat down in the chair next to her. 

“Your dad isn’t stupid. He’ll find out eventually.” He left it at that, and put his hands in his pockets. 

Together, Sherlock and Rosie sat in silence and watched the muted TV; not really watched it thought. They sat staring at it, pretending for each other to be interested, but they stewed in their own thoughts. 


	4. Sandpaper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, yeah. Sorry about being MIA on this story for like 8 months. I won't make any promises (because rarely when I do they are ever kept) but I have a better plan in place for writing so I have an inkling that won't happen again. Here's to chapter 4! Now and especially the next couple chapters is where the story really starts picking up, and it's less just Rosie's POV, but John's as well (AKA Johnlock :) )  
> Please comment and leave kudos! It really boosts my morale and lets me know I'm doing a good job and that writing this is worthwhile for others and not just myself. I've also been thinking about opening my inbox to take requests here? I'd be willing to take Supernatural or Sherlock requests :)
> 
> Not beta-ed, all mistakes are my own. I don't own any of the characters.

Rosie was discharged the next day. She didn’t sleep at all that night, just tossed and turned in her hospital bed which made her drowsy on the cab ride home. Her dad didn’t try and strike up a conversation with her and allowed her to head up to her room as soon as they reached home. There she crashed in her bed and didn’t wake up until early afternoon the next day. 

Rosie peeled her eyes open. She squinted and covered her eyes at the sunlight peeking through her curtains. Rosie groaned as she pushed herself into a sitting position and cringed when the balls of her feet touched the hardwood floor of her room. She reached out for her robe at the end of her bed and shrugged it on before shuffling barefoot downstairs. 

She filled the kettle with water, turned the stove on and reached into the cabinet for tea and sugar. As she waited, she read the scrap on paper left on the counter. 

_ Left for work around 8 but I’ll be home early. Take things easy. Dad. _

Even reading the short note made her eyes throb so she flipped it over and poured her hot water. She added a splash of milk and two sugars and sat at the kitchen table in silence. 

 

 

Rosie heard the front door open and she turned to look at the clock on the microwave. Her dad said he’d be home early but this was earlier than she expected. It blinked 3:08 at her. She shook her head. It had to be wrong, she had woken up at one o’clock and she couldn’t have been sitting there for two hours. Her dad breezed in and laid his bag on the table. 

“Ah, hello darling.” He placed a kiss on her forehead. “How long have you been up? I checked on you when I left and you were beat.”

She reached for the handle of her mug. “Oh, not too long. I think–” she sipped at her tea slowly so as not to burn her tongue– it was ice cold. Rosie frowned at the tea in her cup like it had personally wronged her. She laid the fingers of her broken wrist on the outside of it to feel the heat through the ceramic, but there was none. 

“You think what, dear?” John was searching through the fridge like he did when he was looking for something to eat. 

How could she have been sitting at the kitchen table for 2 hours and have absolutely no memory of it? How could something like that happen?

“I think we should have french toast tonight.” Rosie stuttered out. 

“Ooh, yeah. That sounds good,” He replied. “‘Cept we don’t have any eggs. Actually, we don’t have a lot of things.” He shut the fridge. 

“How’s about I run to the store and grab some groceries and when I get back we’ll make some french toast and bacon?”

Rosie forced a smile onto her face even though after the tea incident she wasn’t hungry anymore. “Sure, sure. That sounds great, Dad.”

He grabbed his keys from the counter and kissed her forehead again. “I’ll be back soon, love. Why don’t you change into something more comfy?” 

Rosie glanced down and noticed that she was still wearing the scrubs Mia gave to her to change into when she took her clothes. 

 

The next couple days were spent at home. Rosie technically had exams to take, but surprising the school allowed her to pass without them because of her “exceptional grades”. And she  _ did _ have exceptional grades, but she was sure Sherlock had a conversation with Mycroft who then had a conversation with the headmaster, and a sizable donation might have even been exchanged. She didn’t mind all the fuss made for her, she was grateful. 

It was hard for her to get to sleep most nights, and it was hard to stay asleep. Rosie would wake in a sweat in the middle of the night with no recollection of what made her wake but her skin crawled like thousands of tiny ants were in her bed. 

 

And Sherlock had kept her secret, much to her surprise. 

 

She expected the first day back at home, for her dad to burst into her room and demand to know what happened. But he never asked any questions about the incident. She didn’t have any answers if he did ask, she still couldn’t remember a damn thing about what happened.

Two nights after The Incident, as Rosie had named it. She spent so long sitting in the bath that she had to rerun the water twice to get it hot again. She leaned with her head barely sticking out and her broken arm sitting on the edge, thinking so hard she gave herself a headache. She couldn’t remember anything. Nothing. Her mind felt like a black hole. 

That night she stood in front of the mirror naked and counted her bruises. The ones that were documented in a file sitting in the police station. It was the first time she’d even dared to look down at her body. 

There was the one on her head. The most obvious one; the only one everyone else could see. There were two on each side of her collarbones, where he had grabbed her so hard as he was forcing himself in her, that he left impressions of his thumbs. There were a few on her ribs. There were more fingerprints on her hips and even more on the inside of her thighs. Dark blue, purple, black, fading brown. They were all different shades of the rainbow.

When the tears blurred her vision so much she could no longer see herself, she climbed into bed like she was and curled into a ball. And so the nightmares began. 

 

She could feel his breath on her neck.

It was stale and smelt like beer. 

His rough hands, rough like a worker, rough like sandpaper…

His rough hands touched her cheek and she could feel his lips mash into hers. 

She could feel her lips moving, “No, no, no.”

He chuckled and whispered, “Yes, yes, yes.”

 

Rosie woke with a scream bubbling in the back of her throat. She slapped a hand over her mouth before any noise could come out and wake her dad down the hall. She could still feel his sandpaper hands touching her legs and her stomach so she bit down on her cast to feel that pain instead. 

She didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. Just stayed awake and typed out everything she could remember in her phone until dawn. 

Rosie credited those nightmares in starting for her determination to remember something. She hated not knowing something. 


	5. Ants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter!! I actually really like this one, and I'm liking how the next one is going too so I hope you all feel the same. Don't forget to leave kudos and comments, it makes me so happy to see what you think of my writing and lets me know how I'm doing!! I hope everyone has a Happy New Year!

Rosie found it very hard to manage the free time she had. Normally when she was on summer holiday she filled the free time by reading and watching tv and hanging out with friends. Reading and tv were out of the question until she was cleared of her concussion by her doctor… and then her father. And she’d ignored every single call or text she’d gotten from her friends. Rosie didn’t really know why everytime a call came across her screen that she pressed the little red button sending them straight to voicemail, but she didn’t want to talk to anyone. Anytime a text came through she didn’t even read it, just swiped and deleted it. Slowly her phone and messaging apps showed there were tens of ignored texts and voicemails that went unlistened to. Those little red dots made her anxious, so she left her phone in her room most days, and spent time sitting in the living room just sitting. Those days felt endless, like the days in between Christmas and New Years, days so inconsequential that you could sleep them away with no worries. 

But finally, a week went by, and the day she was dreading came. Her interview with Lestrade and Co. It was Friday, and her father was easily able to take off work to take her to Scotland Yard. For the first time in a long time, she had to wake up to an alarm, earlier than noon. 

She rolled over and pressed snooze for the second time when a knock came at her door. Her dad peeked through the crack in the door. “Hey love, just wanted to make sure you were up. Got about an hour to get ready.” His hair already dripped from his shower. He smiled and closed the door when she groaned and waved him off. 

For the first time in a week, she rolled out of bed when it was still A.M. and pulled on a pair of black jeans. Topped with a white shirt and jean jacket, she might not be freshly showered but she reckoned she would look presentable. A little bit of dry shampoo and mascara and she looked like the old Rosie, ready to go out with friends. It made her stomach turn just a little. 

And it made her dad happy to see her out of pajamas too. He beamed and rubbed her back. “That’s my Rosie girl,” he said, as he laid down a plate with toast and jam. She munched on that while he read the newspaper. 

He set down the sports section and looked at her. “I’ve missed this.”

Rosie laughed a little. “Missed what?”

“Sitting here with you, eating breakfast, spending time together. You hide out in your room all day now.”

She smiled like he wasn’t catching on to something wrong with her. “Sorry, Dad. I’ve been really tired, this concussion is just knocking me out. But I think it’s getting better. I have fewer headaches than before.” 

He went with the change of subject. “Yeah.” he cocked his head to the side. “And the cut is getting better too.”

 

The ride to SY was long; the morning rush impeded their way, and for the last two blocks Rosie and John mutually agreed to forgo the stop and go traffic to walk the rest of way. She noticed her dad hand the cab driver a hefty tip and took his arm like she did when she was younger and allowed him to lead the way. It’s sunny and windy, and she’s sweaty by the time they reach the building. She sloughed off her jacket in the elevator and attempted to tame her hair in the mirrored doors while her dad chuckled to himself. 

Rosie wasn’t lucky to get the straight, blonde hair she saw in pictures of her mother, no, she got the rough, tangly, curly hair of her father’s side. Though his was always short and manageable, she’d seen pictures of her Aunt Harry growing up, and she was nearly a spitting image of her when she was younger. 

Rosie gave up when they reached Lestrade’s floor, she’d just take a shower when she got home to comb it out. She knew that her father was up here quite frequently when Sherlock and he were running around on their cases, so she followed him through the maze of detective desks to Lestrade’s office. John rapped on the glass door with his knuckles and Lestrade looked up from his desk and waved them in. Her heart started to race at the thought of recounting what happened to her. She’d mostly successfully kept the memories at bay, but throughout the week, she’d been remembering, just as Dr Hansen told her she would. Her father and Lestrade shook hands, though that was just a formality, Greg came around the desk and gave Rosie a kiss on the cheek before heading to the door and motioning to a guy a few desks away. He ended the phone call he was on quickly and came to the door. 

“This is DI Dimmock,” Lestrade said. “He’s going to be the detective on your case, Rose. He’ll just take you to a conference room to talk and bring you back here to your dad when he’s done, yeah?”

“Sounds great, thanks Greg,” she replied. She smiled as she passed him, but it immediately fell off her face as she followed Dimmock to another part of the floor. 

The room was dark and cool, probably meant to keep her at ease, but it just made her shiver with worry. Dimmock motioned for her to sit across from him in a puffy chair. She perched on the edge, as if ready to bolt. Dimmock noticed her discomfort and tried to soothe her. 

“Hey, Rosie. I didn’t get to introduce myself but I’m Paul,” he spread a file out on his lap and took out a pen and pad of paper. “We’re going to make this as painless as possible. Now I know the doctor said you have some amnesia about the event, but we’re just going to start with that day. What did you do when you woke up?”

For the first time, Rosie thought back to how that day started. “I took a shower. I had school, and it was going to be a busy day. Exams were coming up, this week actually.” She picked at the skin around her thumbs. 

“Anything happen at school? Out of the ordinary?”

Rosie tried to remember something that was different, something that could explain why all of this happened to her. But that was the thing, it was the most normal of days. “No, I just had odd classes – 1st, 3rd, 5th, and 7th. Then my friends wanted me to go hang out.”

“Did you? Go hang out?” Dimmock made a few notes in his book. 

Rosie let out a huff of breath. “No, I had exams.” He gave her a look of confusion. “I get… crazy when tests come up. I feel like I can’t study enough. I went to the library.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah, ‘course. I usually go alone because my friends distract me.”

Dimmock smiled cheekily. “They don’t sound like good friends.”

Rosie relaxed a bit more in the chair. “No, they’re great. They just don’t get it. School is important to me, grades are important.”

“You want to go to Uni?”

Rosie grinned. “Yeah.” She imagined the possibilities and places she could go with her grades. Oxford, Cambridge, King’s College, if she wanted to stay in London; nearly anywhere, and she didn’t need any help from the Holmes’ men to get her in. They’d take her all based on  _ her _ , not who she knew. She could even try for America if she wanted out–

“And after the library, what time did you leave there?” Dimmock asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“Just before they closed, eight o’clock.”

Dimmock nodded slowly and continued to write on his paper, urging her to keep talking. This is where she always got caught up. This was the fuzzy bit. No matter how much she tried to remember the face of the man who attacked her, it was clear that her mind was intent on blocking it out. 

“I don’t know. I remember walking towards Sherlock’s–”

“You weren’t headed home?” Paul interrupted.

Rosie closed her eyes and thought hard. Was she headed home? No, no, she was definitely going to Sherlock’s. “The library is closer to his flat. My dad was there and he wanted me to stop and get money for a cab home.”

“And then what happened.”

“I heard a girl screaming,” Rosie gasped. “Oh my god, that girl in the alley, she was yelling for help.”

“Rosie, what girl?” Dimmock leaned forward and set the papers down on the table. “What girl are you talking about?”

“I–I don’t know.” Rosie looked down and saw her hands shaking. She quickly put them under her legs to hide her fright from Dimmock. What girl was she talking about? That question played over and over in her head until it was no longer Dimmock’s voice asking her, but her own. 

“Rosie, I know this is hard, but is it possible you’re not thinking of someone else screaming but remembering–”

“Remembering what happened to me? That the girl I hear screaming is really just me?” Rosie snapped. “I know what it says it your paperwork. I know what it says happened to me but I don’t remember anything!” Rosie stood up and began pacing the length of the room. She was lightheaded and nauseous and the lights were so bright. “I don’t want to remember. I don’t want– oh my god I think I’m going to be sick.”

She stumbled back into her chair. Dimmock grabbed the back of her neck and forced her head between her knees. “Just breathe, Rosie. It’s okay, you need to breathe.”

Rosie inhaled and exhaled shakily. Dimmock rubbed her back lightly like one might do to a sick child to calm them down. Though it was meant to be a sweet gesture, and he probably didn’t even realize he was doing it, every upward movement of his hand made Rosie’s skin crawl like thousands of tiny ants were under her skin, crawling up her neck and into her scalp. She resisted the urge to gag and yack right there on the floor. Her ears were still ringing but it was getting easier to breathe now. 

“I’m going to go get you some water and then I’m getting your dad. I think we’ve done enough today.” He whispered to her. He left and came back quickly with a plastic cup of cold water. She rested the side on her warm cheek, the sound of the door clicking was the only indication that he had gone again. 

The room was silent, but her breathing was loud, and her heart ached. Rosie read a lot of books when she was younger, not as much now–school kept her busy–away from any fun reading. Characters always described the way their heart  _ ached _ . It never made a lick of sense to Rosie, she’d never known heartbreak, she hadn’t had a parent die (at least not while she was a cognizant child). Heartache was just another adjective. Until this moment, as she sat in this room, alone, after recounting all she remembered. And even now, she couldn’t remember what she remembered, because all she could focus on was her heartache. It was a crushing weight upon her chest, like someone had reached in and plied her ribs apart, taken her heart in their hands and begun squeezing it. Like an elephant was sitting on her chest. It was hard to breathe. 

She heard a smattering of male voices outside and she took a sip of water. The door opened so quickly that it bounced off the stopper on the wall and nearly hit John again. “Hey! Rose, love, what’s wrong?”

“It’s too hard, Daddy. I can’t do it,” she muttered, her voice thick with unshed tears. She wanted to cry so badly, but the tears wouldn’t come. Instead, she was left with a stinging nose and burning eyes. 

“Hey, hey.” John kneeled in front of her. He grasped her chin to make her look at him. “I know it’s hard to talk about what happened, but Dimmock and Lestrade, they just want to help. They want to catch the bastards who mugged you.” He had a sweet smile on his face. A reassured smile that he knew she was going to be alright. I mean, it had only been a week, right?

Rosie whimpered. She could feel her pulse pounding in her neck. It was like there was a woodpecker trapped in her throat, pecking, and pecking and pecking to escape. She could practically feel the blood filling her mouth and spilling out in place of the words she wanted to say. “That’s not it, Dad. You don’t know everything.”

His smile faltered. “What’s going on?”

“He didn’t just take all of my stuff and beat me up, h– he–” Rosie had the sudden urge to throw up again. 

She could feel her dad grasp her knee desperately. “Rosie, no, honey. Rosie, look at me. He didn’t…”

But she couldn’t look him in the eyes. She just stared off out of the windows and let the tears that were long awaited for, roll down her cheeks and drip down her neck. “He raped me.” 

“Jesus.” Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched her dad flinch at her words. He fell into the seat across from her and rubbed his face with his hands. 

Rosie continued to pick at the skin around her thumbs until they bled.


	6. Whiskey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but the first one with Johnlock! Remember to leave kudos and comments!

“It was the gardener,” Sherlock chuckled to himself. He leaned back in the kitchen chair, away from his microscope and pulled out his phone. John could hear the key clicks from the living room as Sherlock typed out a message to Lestrade about his latest case. John sat at his computer with his chin in his hands. He sat down with the intention of updating his blog, but so far had just opened a new document, he hadn’t even written a title yet. Sherlock was still laughing to himself when he plopped down in his leather chair. 

“It’s amazing how many criminals believe that they can only be caught with a fingerprint. They wipe the weapon, but they don’t pay attention to what’s on their shoes.” John wasn’t facing him, but he could see Sherlock rolling his eyes. He made a noise in his throat to acknowledge him. 

“John.”

“Hmm?” 

“What’s going on?”

John ran a hand through his hair and shut his laptop with a ‘click’. “It’s Rosie,” he grunted. 

“She told you.”

“Yeah–” John paused, his hand frozen in his hair as he raked through it again. He turned around slowly in his chair to meet his best friends eyes. “You knew and you didn’t tell me?” His voice shook with anger. His head was pounding with a headache just behind his eyes. He squinted past the pain. 

Sherlock shifted slowly in his chair and crossed his legs. “I knew at the hospital.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” John stood up. His hands clenched into fists as he shifted from foot to foot. “You didn’t think that it was important for me to know my daughter was assaulted, Sherlock?!”

Sherlock, as always, kept surprisingly calm. “I knew she would tell you eventually, besides, it was not mine to tell.” He picked a non-existent thread off of his purple button down and waited for John to process.

As much as John wanted to fight—wanted to scream and yell and carry on—he knew that it wouldn’t be fair to Sherlock. He was rightly pissed off, but he would be taking it out on the wrong person and Sherlock didn’t deserve that. John sat down heavily in his chair across from him. “I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

John still felt like he wanted to punch a brick wall. “I can’t fix her, Sherlock. I can’t do anything for her. It’s not like it’s a broken arm that I could diagnose and fix. This is her  _ mind _ .” He sighed, closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He could hear Sherlock get up from his leather chair and head into the kitchen. He brushed it off as a Holmes thing, not wanting to deal with feelings or whatever. Until he heard him puttering around in the kitchen. 

Sherlock Holmes was making tea.

It was something as simple as boiling some water, and yet it made John’s heart surge with love. There were so many different sides to Sherlock Holmes, and while he quite liked the deductive arsehole he was most of the time, his favorite was this: the kind, domestic Sherlock that despite his vehement denial of having feelings, was actually extremely sentimental. 

John didn’t know how long he waited but it couldn’t have been long when Sherlock brushed his arm and murmured a small ‘hey’. He pushed a cup filled to the brim into John’s hands and sat back in his chair with his own. John looked into the honey-brown liquid and noticed a lemon slice sitting on top. He cocked his head towards Sherlock but he pretended he didn’t see and sipped his tea. John did the same and widened his eyes at the taste.

“Is that… whiskey?” He smacked his lips and took another, larger drink. 

Sherlock snorted and smirked. “You needed it.”

“Yeah… I definitely did,” John remarked. He was shocked that Sherlock knew what a hot toddy was, much less knew how to make one so well. 

“You have to be there for her.” Sherlock looked John dead in the eye with his bright blue ones. “You’re right, there is probably nothing you can do. You  _ can’t _ fix her. So, we just have to be there for her.” 

John smiled wistfully. “We?” he asked and then immediately regretted it. 

Sherlock looked away. “Of course only if she wants.”

_ Of course _ , Sherlock would be there. He’d always been there, and it was ridiculous for John to think of anything different. Rosie had grown up with Sherlock being an unexpected constant in her life, and John was forever thankful for the late nights spent trying to get her to sleep, the babysitting, the pickups from primary school. John wanted to kick himself for hurting Sherlock’s feelings. He knew that Rosie meant a lot to him, he was probably just as hurt by what happened to her as John was, he was just handling it differently. 

“I didn’t mean it like that. She  _ will _ need you,” John reaffirmed. “Sometimes I forget how fond you are of her.”

“I’m fond of all the Watsons,” Sherlock informed him. 

John could feel a flush rushing up his neck and he hid a smile behind his mug.


	7. Astronomy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter and the next one are kind of fillers, but that's kinda just how some things go!! Please leave kudos and comments so I know how I'm doing! I didn't edit, so their are probably mistakes.

Rosie got up and looked in the mirror in the living room to fix her curls for the 5th time in fifteen minutes. She was so nervous she had to be doing something with hands at all times. It was only two days ago that she told her dad what had happened at the police station. Rosie didn’t mean to avoid her dad but she felt sick when she looked at him. Neither of them knew what to do. And both were too uncomfortable to talk about it. She thought back to what happened yesterday. 

Last night had been a particularly rough night for Rosie. During her existential crisis in the early hours of the morning, she had broken and looked through her endlessly growing text messages. There were almost fifty from her best friend Cassidy, another hundred from a group chat she was in with all of her school friends. It was hard going through them, but once she started she couldn’t stop. At the end of the group chat, the four girls made plans to get lunch the next day, no mention of Rosie whatsoever. She sighed and tossed her phone next to her on the bed. She picked up the book she had been reading before from her bedside table. She’d been able to read a few pages without too bad of a headache, and she was willing to take what she could get. She found her dog-eared page and started at the top but when she reached the bottom she realized she didn’t retain anything she had read. She growled and threw the book into a pile of dirty clothes at the end of her bed and grabbed her phone again. She opened her messages with Cassidy:

 

_ Hey, do you think there’s room for one more at lunch tomorrow? _

**_ROSIE_ **

**_WTF YES ALWAYS_ **

**_Why weren’t you answering me?? I miss you, are you okay??_ **

_ Yes, yes. I’m good, have a concussion so I’ve been sleeping a lot. Couldn’t use my phone. _

**_Okay yeah obvs but of course you can come tomorrow, want me to get you?_ **

_ Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks, Cass _

**_Babe, of course. Tomorrow at 11:30, I’ll tell Sarah. You’re gonna have to tell me how you got that concussion!_ **

 

And that’s what brought her to now, anxiously pacing on her living room carpet waiting for a cab with Cassidy to come to her house. It was so easy to lie to her friends through text. So easy to say that she was fine even when she was torn up inside. Somehow she was going to have to do the same now but in person. Of course, she wanted Cassidy to know, she wanted to confide in her best friend and hear her comforting words. But she truly didn’t think she had it in her to say those words out loud again. She was conflicted. 

She got up to check her makeup and hair again when the doorbell rang. She grabbed a piece in the front and twirled it around her finger before opening the door with a painfully fake smile. 

“Aw Rosie!” Cassidy nearly bowled her over. Luckily, most of the bruises on her body had healed up and it didn’t hurt when she hugged her tight. “I missed you, honey!” She pulled back and looked over her face. Her eyes stopped on the still healing cut on her forehead and her fingers brushed along her cast. She frowned and pulled on her good hand. “Come on, we can talk in the cab.” 

As the cab started driving away, Rosie pulled her phone out and shot a text to her dad.  _ Going to lunch with Cassidy. I don’t know when I’ll be back.  _ She didn’t want him to worry about where she was but she wasn’t sure he would anyways. He came home late last night from Sherlock’s and left early to ride his bike to work, and unlike every other day, he didn’t even leave her a note. 

“So you want to tell me what happened to you that you got a concussion and a broken arm?”

Rosie picked at the rips in her jeans. She was sticking with the story of just being beaten up and robbed. For now. “Uh, yeah,” she chuckled. “I got mugged on my way back from the library.”

“What? Oh my god, Rosie. Why didn’t you say anything!” Cassidy rubbed her shoulder. 

She took in Cassidy’s wide eyes and shocked expression. “I—I dunno I just… I just didn’t think it wasn’t as big of a deal as it probably was.” 

Cassidy slowly shook her head. She placed a hand on Rosie’s knee. “What are you not telling me, Rose?”

Rosie looked around the interior of the cab and laughed nervously. She glanced at the cab driver who looked nice enough, but she could just  _ tell _ that he was listening in through the half-open divider. “Cass, I don’t know what you mean.” 

Cassidy, of course, didn’t seem convinced. She could always see straight through Rosie, who began picking at the sore skin around her nails again to keep herself distracted. “You’re never like this. All nervous and cagey. You’re acting like a scared animal, and frankly, I’m afraid you’re going to open the cab door and jump out.” She said it with a laugh but she seemed dead serious.

Rosie considered it and Cassidy was right, that did sound like a perfectly adequate idea. She stuffed her hands under her thighs to stop them from reaching out for the door handle, and to try and stop them from picking the already ruined skin. For a minute she stared at the back of the passenger seat. She memorized the cuts and scores in the vinyl, the scuffs and dirt marks from shoes and bags rubbing against it, and let out a breath she’d been holding. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

Lunch was awful. Well, awful for Rosie. She sulked the entire time. She tried to join in on the fun and conversation that her girlfriends were having but she _ just didn’t feel like having fun. _ It was like the cab ride just completely sucked all the energy out of her. At first they tried to get her to participate too, but when they realized most of their questions were met with blank stares and ‘what?’ because she would space out they left her alone. She was content with listening and picking at her food. She felt so out of it when she left, that when her cab pulled up to Baker Street she nearly forgot to pay him. But to be fair, she also didn’t remember telling him where to go. 

She didn’t even know if Sherlock was home, she was just counting on it. She ran her fingers against the soft, well-worn railing and trudged up the steps, making sure to avoid the one that squeaked like always. The door to the kitchen was cracked and through it she could see Sherlock working on something in the kitchen. She didn’t knock, just pushed it aside and slipped in. 

Sherlock did a double take when he saw her. “Rosie.”

“Can I hover?” She pointed at his microscope and the Erlenmeyer flasks on the table. 

He nodded. “You can help.”

Rosie groaned and hung up her coat and purse on the coat rack. “I didn’t ask if I could  _ help.  _ I just want to watch.”

Sherlock shrugged at her. “Then leave,” he murmured, smiling into his microscope. She felt as if the tiredness and misery she was feeling left her body as she sat next to him. His presence didn’t drain her, if anything, it uplifted her. It had always been her job to be his little assistant when he was working on experiments. She was shit at chemistry, but she knew all the working parts of a microscope, and when he asked for something, she knew exactly what he was talking about. And it was nice. The flat was like it had always been; warm and cluttered in the most attractive way. It had a faint burnt smell because of the Bunsen burners but Rosie didn’t mind. 

Sherlock turned the microscope towards her. “What do you see?”

She sent a glare his way for making her participate but looked anyways. Luckily, she didn’t have to tell him she didn’t know. Little red disks with concave middles–

“Blood,” she told him proudly. 

“Good,” Sherlock started. “See anything else?” He nodded at the microscope again, urging her to take another look. 

Rosie didn’t think she missed anything but looked again to appease him. “No–oh,” She turned up the brightness and grasped the fine adjustment. Hidden between a million normal looking red blood cells, were a few scattered crescent-shaped ones. “They have sickle cell.”

“Good!” Sherlock seemed a thousand times more pleased. “Now this one.” He slid the microscope back his way and switched out the slides with expert fingers. He quickly focused it and turned it back to her. 

“Now this one is just regular blood,” she pointed out, shrugging in his direction. 

“Yes,” he growled, obviously perturbed. 

She furrowed her brows. “Sherlock, is this for a case?”

“Lestrade brought me the file this morning. They already have a suspect. Two murders, years apart; both of them his wives. They’re almost devoid of evidence except for the blood from the first slide and with this second murder they’re certain it’s him.”

“Except?” She urged him to go on. He was irritated, but she couldn’t see why yet.

“Except,” he stood up and walked around the table. He leaned heavily on a chair across from her. “When they got the court order to take a sample of his blood, it was normal. The second slide I showed you. Lestrade wants me to figure out how he did it. How he could murder two of his wives and have different blood at each of their crime scenes.”

“What are you going to do now?”

He scraped his hands through his hair. “Now I have to think,” he informed. If he had been wearing his coat it would have swished around him as he marched back to his chair. He closed his eyes and steepled his hands against his lips and was off, deep into his mind palace to find an answer. 

Rosie knew he could be gone for hours, but she didn’t want to leave. No, she didn’t want to  _ go home. _ She worked to find something around the flat to do. She tidied up his kitchen as much as she could without messing anything up. She wandered into the sitting room and looked over the bookcase behind him. She settled on a book of astronomy that she shouldn’t know was there, half hidden on the bottom shelf. It made her laugh when she thought of Sherlock, the man who knew  _ everything _ , not knowing that the Earth went ‘round the sun. 

She settled on the couch with her legs pulled up under her. She set the book in her lap and opened it to a random page in the middle. 


End file.
